Bless Me Father For My Burger Has Sinned

For anyone who really knows me (which would be nobody ’cause I’m more dark and mysterious than that goth girl in high school you threw your Jujubees at), you know that I am torn when it comes to play on the grass. The points are short, the crowd is full of English zombies, and there’s a perceived-no, illusion-of elegance that pervades this tournament that makes the white trash in me (which would be all of me) want to rise up against the subtle backdrop of tyranny and drive my dinner fork into someone’s monocled eyeball. I don’t know what makes me so torn, I can’t think of a single thing that I like about the grass. Okay, maybe it’s quieter, so I can catch up napping, there. And it falls under the category of tennis, which causes my chub to rise slightly as if caught in a warm summer breeze at a nudist colony. So there you have it, a little confession. I do feel bad about it, unlike other sins, namely masturbating 64 times per diem, so I’ll do my best to overcompensate and write really shitty uninspired coverage of weed play and shitty weed coverage which is what this site is slowly morphing into. Just know, when you see exclamation points in the next two weeks here, I might be faking it. It’ll be the same award-winning acting your girlfriend does when you mount your smelly, hairy, 300 lbs. body on the delicate flower that is your girlfriend and pump away as she proclaims to the high heavens she is indeed enjoying the tortuous thrashing that is being bestowed upon on her waif-like frame. Now that’s a sin. Let’s Go!!! (it’s the American version of Allez!!!).

My fist beef with the beefeaters tourney is their claimproclamation declaration (oooooh, burn! In your face English. Yeah, it was called the declaration of independence. Maybe you heard about it? I know I did!) that men are gentlemen, and women are ladies. A bit presumptuous don’t you think? Exhibit ‘A’, your honor…. This was actually the first pic that came up on Google images, I mean imagine the treasures that are buried beneath page 1!. Motion for the court to recognize that Wimbledon is out of order. RAFA!, by now has foregone his traditional butt picking and milk loogies to using the PedEgg on his choad in between points. And what about all the town criers? Just like Robert Smith cried, boys don’t cry, and for the sake of this comparison flying, neither do gentlemen. Exhibit ‘B’ your honor… (1st pic too!). Seriously your honor, who does she think she is? King Slut? That’s one sarcophagus I wouldn’t want to unearth. A-O! I pose the question to the court, lady or beast? When you leave this courtroom and go back to whatever that room is called that you make your decisions in just remember that the fate of the world rests on your decision. Ladies do not run around with their twats dangling from their short skirts, nor do they hail from Rochester Minnesota. I bet she won the “coldest twat in Rochester” award. Who’s the poor schmuck who gets to apply the mercury in that competition?

Okay, on with it you say. The draws, yes they are quite juicy as far as first courses go. We’ll cover the men first, and I’ll even be nice enough to include Murray despite his incessant crying.

Monfils. What can I say? He’ll win it all.

I’m intrigued by Gasquet v. Fish. Namely I want Gasquet to put to rest all the naysayers (whatever those are) who claim he’s heartless and give Mardy “who fucked up that birth certificate” Fish a cleaning he’ll never forget.

Olivier Rochus: Who am I playing in the first round?

Rochus’ Coach: Dudi

Olivier Rochus:(a bit confused) I’m playing Dooty?

Rochus’ Coach: Yes, Dudi.

Olivier Rochus: Like, he’s kaka?

Rochus’ Coach: Welllll, yeah, but that’s his name too.

Llllllllodra plays Ancic, and I really like Ancic, mostly because he pops his collar during photo shoots but looks a little self-conscious about the whole move. “Iz dis making me loook good, yah?”

I’m quite happy skate dad will be out by the first round, playing Johansson, and you can quote me on that. Actually, you can quote everything I say on here. Just imagine giant quotation marks that start with my first ever post and close with whenever my last post will be. Probably very soon if I continue to write lame shit like this.

I don’t know where the term “screwed the pooch” came from or what it means, but can we just change it to “screwed the Querry”? How many wallets with cash has this guy found and kept to receive so much bad karma? Did Hitler reincarnate as Querry? The guy couldn’t catch a break at an all you can catch-a-break buffet. Okay, I’ll stop. But first Federer, and now Ferrero? Jesus, the karma gods are even working in alphabetical order against this guy! I guess he deserves it. I’m sure there’s a fridge full of decapitated heads back at his apartment or something.

Speaking of gods, the Greek god of Humility and Self-Given Nicknames looked down on Odesnik handing him Nieminen in the first. Oooops! There’s still a chance to take back that “American version of Nadal” name tag you made for yourself in arts and crafts class. Maybe you could cross it out and change it to “American version of Blake” assuming Blake is not American.

Yeah, Blake out in the first. Who’s he playing? Doesn’t matter.

Donald Young is back! Please, fuck shit up. Fuck it up! The front of his cap is slowly turning to where the bill is straight. I think when this happens it’ll be like all the planets aligning and something strange and beautiful will happen with his tennis skills. Kinda like in Voltron when all the dudes came together to make that weird Lionbot, or Robotiger.

SHITLER!!!!!

How sweet is it that Gulbis gets to topple Isner? Granted it’ll all be done in tie-breaks, but he’ll “get ‘er done” as our most radical president says on a daily basis regarding our sworn enemies. Is that like, “I swear, you’re my enemy”?

Federer got the tomato can of all tomato cans in Hrbaty. Frankly, I’m surprised there’s even a photo available.

Oh, nevermind, RAFA! got the no photo available guy.

Ladies first eh, Queen Laqueefah? I thinks not. And yes, now the women with a few exceptions (I’m looking at your giant frame, Manesmo, and yes, you Kooze!).

Meusburger!!! Hopefully she reps burgers better than her outing at the French Open when she got swept, and I believe skunked in the 2nd.

I can only hope Vaidisova doesn’t implode, yet my chub hopes she does have a few nervous breakdowns and smashed racket incidents. Tennisburger loves crazy women. I bet she listens to jazz and smokes cigarettes (the two main pillars of crazy women). I would love to come home to Vaidisova and find her throwing my belongings out the window onto the front yard, ranting about how she suspects (wrongly of course) that I’m cheating on her. She’d fight my attempts at consolation, maybe rake me across the face drawing blood, then feel remorseful seeing the blood drip from my open cheek, and we’d commence a rugged go at animal-like lovemaking that would even make Mattek blush.

Mattek. Yes, her and her class rolled up to the lawn in a bright pink cadillac with her beau, Andrew Dice Clay. I thought the English were civilized? Sounds like a rad when-worlds-collide 80’s movie.

Cornet got a no photo available woman which literally made my chub a bit more chubbier.

Davenport, who’s 482 according to my abacus and some rude calculations is back in the game. Let me give her a “good for her” and a pat on the head. To all of you who think she’ll go far, this is me laughing in your face right now. If I’m wrong, which is usually the case, you can call me (at 555-555-5555) and laugh at the operator who will be telling you that you’ve dialed a fake number.

If both Peer and Bartoli don’t make it out of the first round I just may stop watching women’s tennis altogether.

Popov is hiding down at the bottom, seeded 3rd and you can just smell the pot of revenge cooking. She’s down in her basement all Phantom of the Opera style with half a face, just scheming. If I was the chair umpire for her matches I’d be ready with some ear plugs and a face guard in case she argues with me and I inadvertently get scratched.

Yay, Ivanovic, you’re number one, congratulations. That party will not last long. In fact, the janitors are already cleaning up the confetti and broken plastic champagne glasses as we speak. Your days at the top are numbered. Grab your mustache comb and hit the road. And don’t act surprised!

Well I’m starting to cramp and my knees ache and Italy is playing Spain, and I have a giant crap in my bowels and my phone is ringing (actually it never rings, will someone please call me!?), so I gotta go. If any of you know the English equivalent of Allez! please please please let me know. See you Monday night (I have a new girlfriend and she’s taking up way too much of my time with non-sex related activities, namely buying her things and driving her to other guys’ houses) so my posts won’t come ’til midnight, aka late as yoosh.

Did you just reference Down By Law? Did I just reference Down By Law?? Maybe we were separated at birth (which sounds gross). And yes, Spain should’ve beat those criers 30 seconds in. Cheerio, mate! You win the grand prize (of nothing, sadly). Glad to be reunited though!<—–fo’ real dough.